Away from the grasp of her warmth, this she tells me she wants to do; that I tell her, I’d love it, too. Words we speak through the phone when she’s in bed dressed in red, satin sheets beneath her lies, lying with sweet nothings left unsaid — rustling covers and soft wet moans, the shaking between her thighs with her fingers she’s arrived; I feel alive; her body a map above my head. I’m coming home.

(© 2021 AC)

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